A running argument in my almost 20-year-old marriage—one that neither of us will ever win—is which one of us is the worse stealer of the covers.

There have been times when I’ve woken up with the entire top sheet somehow wrapped completely around me, making me wonder if he might be right.

But then there are nights when I’m up late reading and he’s tossing and turning, taking the entire comforter over to his side, leaving me exposed and cold as an icicle.

It happens often since I’m a night owl and usually still awake after my husband has fallen asleep. I’ll try to present this evidence for my defense whenever the playful argument ensues, yet he never yields and sticks to his accusation that I’m the head cover thief.

Every time it happens, I feel a spurt of rage for not being believed, silly as it is, and tonight this poem came to me as I shivered once again on my side of the bed.
~

Rage
It is always there
Like energy that can never be created or destroyed, its form can only change

Sometimes faint
Sometimes fierce
Always under the surface, mostly

Triggered by imperfection
When I don’t pay attention and hit my head so hard my teeth rattle, feeling like a klutz

Triggered by silly
When I yank them back after he tugs the covers to his side of the bed, feeling like a warrior

Triggered by obvious
When I am lied to and manipulated by people I thought I could trust, feeling like a fool

Who passed it down?
What is it meant for?
When is it okay?
Where does it come from?
Why can’t it be controlled?

How can it be ignored?

It is real
It is valid
It is a reflection, of love

How could I rage if I did not know love?
How could I rage if I did not feel love?
How could I rage if I did not mourn love?

It is not meant to be beat
To be conquered
To be crushed

It is not meant to be suppressed
To be abandoned
To be erased

It is meant to be felt
To be observed

It is meant to be accepted
To be released

It is meant to be loved, by me
As I never was, by them

Rage
It will always be there
Like energy that can never be created or destroyed, its form can only change

Sometimes fierce
Sometimes faint
Always under the surface, mostly

And I will love it
Like I never was

Because it is a part of me
And I must love all of me

Compassionate and reserved
Stubborn and flexible
Impulsive and thoughtful
Trustworthy and irresponsible
Naïve and wise

And sometimes, raging.

~

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